


The Relevance of Miracles

by clarityhiding



Series: On Memories & Miracles [2]
Category: Bandom, Panic! at the Disco, Young Veins
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-06-02
Updated: 2009-06-02
Packaged: 2017-10-21 18:05:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,368
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/228071
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/clarityhiding/pseuds/clarityhiding
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>Ryan doesn't need to know that the kid has a life just like everyone else, has problems like everyone else. He's objectified the kid because that's how he wants to think of him—as an object, not a person.</i> AU. Sequel/parallel story to The Persistence of Memory.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Relevance of Miracles

**Author's Note:**

> **Disclaimer:** None of this ever happened. Or maybe it did, but not like this. Either way, most probably, definitely composed of spurious, spurious lies.
> 
> For formerlydf who cheered me on and commiserated with me over Ryan's pov. And for belle_bing, who held my hand and reassured me when I thought it might be too much. Thanks to everyone on my f-list who's put up with my babbling about this for the past year, particularly okubyo_kitsune and wintersrain, last-minute beta readers extraordinare. ♥s you all.

Ryan doesn't tell Spencer that when they learned the truth about Santa Claus, the Easter Bunny, and the Tooth Fairy at age nine, that when they came to the shocking, life-rocking realization that magic wasn't real, had never been real, he hadn't stopped wanting it. He stopped saying that he wanted to be a wizard when he grew up, stopped thinking the words were really magic when the magician at a classmate's birthday party produced a dove from his hat. Ryan doesn't tell Spencer that when they stopped believing in magic, he never stopped dreaming about it. Later, he thinks that maybe if he'd told Spencer back then, his friend wouldn't have had such a hard time understanding him while growing up. At the same time, even at nine, Ryan was slightly off and different from the other kids they knew, so it's completely possible that telling Spencer would not have made any difference.

It was just as well he gave up on believing in magic years before, Ryan concludes at sixteen, since no matter how much you want something to be real, no matter how much belief you waste on an idea, a thing, a person, it won't come true. Can't become true, not through belief alone. By sixteen, he's learned that if he wants something, he has to get it for himself. Other people can't be depended on to get it for him.

"I have a plan," he tells Spencer as they sit together in Spencer's room, "for after school. I've got it all figured out." He shows Spencer his careful outline. He shows him the charts, the page upon page of neatly written notes, the printed pages that have been carefully trimmed down to fit in the spiral-bound notebook. The notebook has a black cover, and Ryan likes to think that he's being ironic, but he knows that really, it was the last notebook left from a pack bought back in September, at the start of the school year. He's already used green for history, yellow for French, blue for math. Since he refused to use the lavender one, all that was left was black.

"I thought you wanted to get out of here," Spencer says, because Spencer remembers a few years back, when Ryan had grand plans to get out of Summerlin, away from Vegas, to make it big. Plans that always depended too much on other people, on someone, anyone else. Ryan's more realistic now.

"It's cheaper to go to college locally. I'm getting paid to do French tutoring at school now, so I'm saving that up, and there are scholarships I can get for school. If I take care of all my lower division requirements and things at a community college first, I can save money that way too. Plus, my dad says that I can keep on living at home as long as I have a job. If I save what I earn from working part-time while going to community college, I should be able to afford to move out on my own with minimal loans by the time I transfer to a four year university. If I do it right, maybe I can get my degree in three years."

"It's two more years at home," Spencer says quietly, and Ryan shrugs. At least Spencer knows better than to ask why Ryan feels like he needs to pay for everything on his own, knows better than to ask why he feels he can't ask his dad for help, the way the guidance counselor at school did. "If you think you can do it..."

"I can."

Spencer nods, though it's clear he's not happy about this. They don't dwell on it—both of them are used to Spencer being unhappy with the way things are in Ryan's life. Both of them know that much as he'd like to be able to do something, Ryan won't let him. That Ryan doesn't want help from anyone else, doesn't need help from anyone else.

To this end, he starts walking dogs after school to pick up some spare cash. Walking dogs soon segues into washing windows, and, summer before his senior year, Spencer's junior, Ryan manages to get a job as a clerk in a music store at the nearby mall. It isn't a real music store—there are no instruments, no sheet music, nothing like that—just a record store, though it doesn't actually sell records. Mostly CDs, though when Ryan was younger, there were cassette tapes instead. No one really remembers cassettes anymore, except for when they start talking about mix tapes, but even those seem to be put together on CDs these days. Spencer tells him he's being old and crotchety, and while Ryan scowls at Spencer's teasing, he sometimes gets the vague feeling that Spencer's right, though not in the way that Spencer thinks he is. It isn't that Ryan's old before his time, it's more like he remembers things better than most. Remembers them longer, with more clarity.

Maybe that's why the kid sticks in his memory.

Ryan notices the kid the first time he walks into the store. Much as Ryan will later like to claim it's the kid's shining personality that draws his attention, or his eclectic taste in music, or even the kid's dorky glasses, the real thing that grabs Ryan that first time is the kid's tight ass. Since the kid can't be more than fifteen, tops, Ryan doesn't do anything other than admire said ass in a very discreet manner. Despite Spencer's occasional claims to the contrary, Ryan has no interest in an obvious piece of jailbait. Plus, Ryan has a girlfriend. Even more importantly, Ryan has a plan, one that rather hinges on him not getting arrested for statutory rape.

The first time the kid talks to him—really talks to him, doesn't just make throwaway comments about the weather (comments Ryan always ignores in turn because he doesn't care if the kid has a brain, just if he keeps bringing his ass back to the store when Ryan's on shift)—Ryan's been working at the music store for a little over six months. He gets the vague impression that the kid thinks he's a new employee, which is a little understandable, he supposes—Ryan's only really started experimenting with the way he dresses since leaving high school. Before, he wasn't exactly memorable, just another too-skinny emo teen. At least that's what Spencer claimed; Ryan told him to shut it, karma's a bitch. Secretly, he's hoping Spencer will finally embrace his inner-girl one of these days and start stealing his sisters' baby-Ts. Ryan's pretty sure it's only a matter of time before it happens.

Initially, Ryan's more annoyed than anything else by the kid's apparent need to ruin Ryan's two-dimensional perception of him. Ryan doesn't need to know that the kid has a life just like everyone else, has problems like everyone else. He's objectified the kid because that's how he wants to think of him—as an object, not a person.

Only, it seems that the kid doesn't have the same every day, run of the mill problems like everyone else. Instead, he has the thing Ryan's been yearning to have for ages now—the improbable, the impossible, the fantastic.

"People forget me if I don't talk to them," the kid whinges. It sounds insane and there's no good reason Ryan should believe him, no good reason why Ryan shouldn't respond with the same bitter cynicism he's had for years now. Ryan has no reason to believe the kid's claim. No reason except for the fact that Ryan anxiously, desperately wants to.

If Ryan stopped believing in Santa Claus when he was nine, in God when he was fourteen, in much of anything, anyone other than himself at sixteen, it was never because he stopped _wanting_ miracles and magic, but rather that he refused to accept their existence without proof. The kid may not provide Ryan with a demonstration of what's happening to him, how he's being forgotten, but the completely random and far-fetched nature of the claim, plus the lost look Ryan sees on the kid's face when he glances up are proof enough. It doesn't even occur to Ryan to disbelieve the kid.

All the same, it pisses Ryan off to no end that he's finally found magic and it's happening to someone else. That, rather than treat this like the amazing, wonderful thing that it is, the kid is acting as if it's the world's greatest hardship. Ryan wants to shake him silly, to slap some sort of sense into him, for him to see the gift he's been handed. Just his luck that the kid is also a customer and Ryan can't do anything to screw up his already precarious position. Much as he's loathe to admit it, Ryan concedes that perhaps Spencer was right about customer service not being Ryan's forté.

Ryan doesn't yell at the kid, but it's a close thing. He's proud of the fact that he at least manages to leave the impression that he doesn't give a damn about the kid's problem. Much as he wants to know all the tiny details about what's happening to the kid, Ryan convinces himself that what he really wants is for the kid to return to his status as a two-dimensional piece of ass.

Nearly a month passes and the kid doesn't come back to the store, which is fine with Ryan. It's weird, but he feels uncomfortable about being around the kid now that he's proven himself to have depths. Dorky kids with unusually tight asses aren't supposed to have depths, not in Ryan's world, at least. They're supposed to be just as shallow and superficial as Ryan's attraction to them. That's how it works.

At the same time, Ryan in part regrets his anxiousness to remain removed and aloof when dealing with the kid. He couldn't fully interrogate him for all the details and peculiarities of his situation, his miracle. That's what it is, in Ryan's mind, a miracle, not a disaster or a tragedy. Unlike the kid, Ryan would love to have something similar happen to him, or so he reassures himself.

When he watches the door, head bobbing up every time he catches movement near it, Ryan tells himself he's not waiting for the kid to come back, not anxiously hoping he _will_ come back, bringing his magic with him. Ryan tells himself this, but Spencer tells him otherwise.

"You're all jittery," he accuses when he comes in after class one day. Spencer sounds suspicious but Ryan doesn't let that bother him, since suspicious tends to be Spencer's default setting when it comes to dealing with Ryan. Generally, Ryan tries to not dwell on what this says about their friendship. "What's going on?"

"I'm not jittery," Ryan insists even as his head jerks up and his eyes track a dark haired person as they walk past the big windows at the front of the store. It's not the kid—too tall, too many curves. Ryan isn't disappointed. "Nothing's going on."

"Are you waiting for someone? I think you're waiting for someone. Is it the kid with the ass? Oh my god, it is, isn't it? You are totally a weird stalker person," Spencer decides, sounding positively gleeful. Ryan concludes that Spencer must die a slow and painful death. He also decides that he needs to stop spilling his guts to his stupid best friend. That or find someone who doesn't know him so well to fill the position. "You spend your days checking out underage boys and you wonder why it is you can't keep a girlfriend," Spencer sighs, shaking his head.

Since he is a mature adult, Ryan does not respond to Spencer's jibes. He is not about to lower himself to the same level of puerile ridiculousness that Spencer Smith happily wallows in. Instead, Ryan meets Spencer's smile with a blank, bored stare. At least he does until Spencer brings up Ryan's misadventures in the world of dating. "Shut up," Ryan snaps. "I was the one who broke up with the last one."

"Yeah, because you found out she was cheating on you."

Ryan really needs to stop telling Spencer everything. "This is different," Ryan says, because he knows he's going to tell Spencer everything eventually. After twelve years, it's too well ingrained for him to break the habit now. "The thing with ass-guy, I mean. Last time he came by, he talked to me." When Ryan stops—pauses, really—it's as much because he isn't sure how to explain the situation to Spencer as it is for dramatic effect.

"And?" Spencer prompts, leaning forward on the counter. "Did he tell you his mommy wants you to stop leering at him or she's calling the cops?"

"He isn't _that_ young," Ryan says, rolling his eyes. "And I don't _leer_ —not all of us are as incapable of checking someone out without letting the world know about it as you are." Seriously, Spencer trying to pick up girls is both the funniest and the most pathetic thing Ryan has ever witnessed. This is likely because Spencer has made the mistake of believing the juniors who decided to make Spencer their role model for when it comes to wooing the ladies. Ryan wonders about juniors sometimes. "Anyway, I don't think he even realizes I've been watching him."

"I bet he just asked about getting a raincheck on something," Spencer finally decides. "You're being way too evasive about this for it to've been anything interesting or important."

Ryan wants to protest, to prove Spencer wrong, but now that he's about to explain, about to tell someone else about the kid's situation, he finds he doesn't really want to. That Spencer won't believe him doesn't concern Ryan—he doesn't expect Spencer to be anything other than skeptical of ass-guy's story, though he knows there's enough history between them both that Spencer will at least allow that it might, possibly, hypothetically be true. Rather, Ryan doesn't want to share the magic with Spencer. He's spent so many years looking, hoping for something like this that he wants to keep it to himself, hoard it. Which is unsurprising, really. The fact that he's a selfish jerk is not exactly a new revelation for Ryan.

What _is_ surprising, _is_ unexpected is that Ryan's reasons for wanting to keep this from Spencer are not entirely selfish. More importantly than the need to keep it, hoard it to himself, Ryan feels it isn't his place to share what he's been told, isn't his story to tell. He's really only ever talked to the kid the one time, but still. Out of everyone he could have taken his problems to, the kid came to Ryan. Sure, it's entirely possible that the kid tells the same sob story to everyone he meets, but he told Ryan. He told Ryan, and that has count for something.

"Yeah," Ryan says at last. "It was something like that."

Spencer rolls his eyes and gives a somewhat-indulgent smile. "You sure this kid's ass is the only thing that's grabbed your attention? Usually you don't obsess like this."

"Shut up. You're a jerk."

Spencer just laughs.

When Ryan next sees the kid it's early January, before the spring semester's started for Ryan but after Spencer's break has ended. Ryan still isn't waiting for the kid, still isn't watching for him. He's just bored out of his mind—two weeks of Spencer hanging around the store during his shifts have possibly spoiled Ryan rotten—so he notices when the kid comes in, humming (practically singing, really) a familiar tune under his breath.

Ryan's hesitant about approaching him, not entirely sure what to say, how to act. He knows he was a jerk last time, wouldn't be surprised if the kid never wants to talk to him again now. There's a reason the owner of the store is constantly riding Ryan about his attitude when he deals with customers. Only Ryan can't let it go.

"Motion picture soundtracks are the next aisle over," Ryan says, referring to what the kid is humming. Ryan keeps his voice dull and bored, refuses to let the guy pick up on his interest. Taking in the bouncy, spazzy appearance of the kid, Ryan goes on to say where the soundtracks for children's movies are located.

Apparently the kid is determined to undermine Ryan's presumptions and preconceived notions, because not only does he know that Sleeping Beauty is a ballet (which is actually one-up on Ryan, who had the vague idea it was a waltz or an opera), he wants the newest recording done by a fairly obscure orchestra. As it is, Ryan is too impressed to be significantly peeved about it. He's careful not to let his surprise show, however. Give anyone an inch and they'll take a mile, Ryan knows.

He maybe accidentally smiles a little, though.

Out of nowhere, the kid starts talking about how his girlfriend didn't forget him and Ryan's left feeling like he should start paying more attention, since this is why he talks to the kid, not the fact the the guy has an odd, broad taste in music.

It seems the kid has this idea that the closer he is to someone, the faster they'll forget him. He complains about relatives and teachers forgetting him, his girlfriend remembering him, and it doesn't take Ryan long to figure out what's missing, what isn't being said. The kid is concerned about family and teachers—people who are obligated to recall and keep track of him—but makes no mention of any friends aside from the girlfriend. Ryan may not be the most social of people, but even he has Spencer. Other friends too, people who he would probably be annoyed over if not upset about if they forgot him. Even Ryan has friends he cares about, but this kid doesn't seem to have anyone like that.

The kid is babbling on about his girlfriend, what he's going to do about her (probably dump her, graduation's soon; Ryan approves, girlfriends are bitches, mostly), but Ryan's distracted and not really listening, caught up by the fact that the kid doesn't seem to have any friends worth mentioning. Ryan's gearing up to ask about that, carefully forming the question in his mind, picking out words, turning them over (speaking is an art form, as Ryan keeps reminding Spencer, but Spencer doesn't ever get it), when what the kid's saying finally catches up and registers. The question (line, lyric) in his head falls apart and scatters. "You're a senior?"

"Yeah. I'll... see you around, I guess."

Ryan hardly notices as the kid leaves. He's still trying to process this new piece of information. That the kid is a senior shouldn't matter, it _shouldn't_ , but somehow it does, because it means that the kid isn't that much younger than Ryan, means he isn't intangible, silly, nothing. At only eighteen, Ryan's still young enough to know that teens can be serious about things, still young enough to know how screwed up and real their lives can be. It doesn't hurt that this means Ryan can finally rub it in Spencer's face that he hasn't been perving over a piece of jailbait. Hell, the kid can't be more than a couple months younger than Spencer, might even be older.

Spencer might even have classes with him.

"What? Fuck no, I'm not going to encourage your stalker habits, Ross." Spencer says this because Spencer's a bitch who likes to take a joke too far, way past the point in time where it's funny.

"I'm not asking you to stalk him," Ryan says slowly. "I'm just asking if he goes to school with you."

"You want me to stalk him," Spencer insists, because he's an idiot who obsesses over things. "I don't see why you're so stuck on this guy anyway—aren't you always insisting that you're mostly straight?" And yeah, Spencer has a point, Ryan supposes. He may admire the kid's ass, but Ryan only ever dates girls. Ryan likes girls—he likes the way they curve, likes the way they dress. Also, breasts. Ryan is a big fan of breasts. He likes when they're a little firm, not too soft; medium size, not too small but not too big either, just the right size for him to cup them in his hands so he can feel the soft, heavy weight of them.

Spencer eyes him suspiciously. "You're thinking about breasts again, aren't you?"

"Yeah, your mom's," Ryan says, face completely straight. The blank look doesn't last long, though, and his face quickly falls into a look of disgust which mirrors Spencer's own, because, _ew_ , Spencer's _mom_.

"Anyway, just because he's a senior doesn't mean he goes to school with me," Spencer concludes. "There _are_ other schools in the area. And some people even have to travel more than five miles to find a music store they like, you know."

Clearly, Spencer is a spoilsport, out to ruin Ryan's completely innocent and well-meaning intentions that are not the least bit stalkerish. Really. (Mostly.) Ryan puts that plan of attack on hold for now. If he's going to find out more about the kid, it's obviously going to be without Spencer's help. That's fine with Ryan—he learned a long time ago that the only person he can always depend on is himself. Even Spencer isn't an exception to this rule.

The next time he sees the kid, it's late April. Between different spring breaks, the Smith family going camping for five days, and Spencer generally freaking out over AP tests, Ryan hasn't seen Spencer in weeks, and it's starting to get to him a little, because even if Spencer is an idiot sometimes and a dick a lot of the time, he's still Ryan's best friend. Ryan's getting ready to update the store's look by switching out the posters on the walls for newer ones—a task he always enjoys since whoever changes the posters gets first dibs on the old ones—when the kid comes in and starts spouting nonsense about how his life is oh so hard since he can't go to college. Apparently the kid's reasoning is that if he goes away for college, his parents will forget him, and ultimately forget to pay his tuition. The kid's whinging irritates Ryan, though he isn't sure if it's because the kid can depend on his parents to cover his tuition, or if it's because the kid can't be bothered to figure out a way to support himself if he goes, or if it's that the kid's biggest concern is not his family forgetting him, but rather his family forgetting to pay his way. Ryan's pretty proud of the fact that he manages to bite his tongue and not ream the kid out just because his family can't hold his hand every step of the way.

He does make the kid help him with the posters, pushing the box of thumbtacks into his hands before scrambling up the semi-sturdy step-stool. Ryan figures it's the least the kid can do, seeing as how he comes in all the time and he's slacked off on actually _buying_ anything anymore. (Spencer does the same thing, but Spencer's _different_ , he provides actual, interesting conversation.) It's a slow day, and no one comes in to bother Ryan as they slowly make their way around the store. The kid passes up thumbtacks, sometimes before Ryan even has to ask him to, and Ryan vaguely nods along as he chatters away, occasionally offering up half-hearted solutions for the kid's current problem. Then the kid makes some off-hand remark about community colleges being glorified high schools, and Ryan has patience (kind of) and tact (sometimes), but he also has _limits_. "I'm at a community college. Don't knock them. They're a good way to save money," he snaps angrily.

The kid goes pale and for some inconceivable reason Ryan actually feels a little guilty. He momentarily wonders if perhaps he shouldn't have been so brusque. "Sorry," the kid mumbles. "I didn't realize you were—" He breaks off before he can say anything more, but even Ryan can tell where the sentence was going. It's written all over the kid's face that he didn't think Ryan was in school, he just assumed Ryan was some loser who just stopped after high school. Ryan wants to be snide, to attack the kid with barbed words, but he forces himself to calm down and not stress it. How is the kid assuming Ryan's not in school any different from Ryan assuming for ages that the kid was some teeny, preppy freshman, after all?

"You didn't know," Ryan says diplomatically, shrugging. "Can't you just explain the whole thing to your family?" he suggests. Not a tactic Ryan would try with his own father, but if he were Spencer, had Spencer's parents, Spencer's family... Ryan's realistic, he knows his situation isn't typical, knows that Spencer's is. He knows that, as crazy as it is, if he or Spencer told Spencer's parents a story like the kid's, they'd believe it. It's what parents do—what they're _supposed_ to do, Ryan thinks bitterly.

The kid stutters out something about how he can't tell his family, they'll think he's nuts, and it's. Ryan doesn't need to know that. He doesn't need to hear that the kid is too afraid the talk to the people he should be closest to about how his life is falling apart around his ears. Ryan hasn't held onto many fantasies since he turned nine and stopped believing in things, but he clings to the hope, the idea that he's the exception, not the rule. It's hard to feel sorry for yourself when you know everyone else is just as bad off as you.

All of this comes together and Ryan blows up at the kid, tears him apart and rips him to pieces with words. It's easy, almost frighteningly so, but words have always been easy for Ryan. He knows exactly what to say and how to say it so as to cause maximum damage. Ryan is the king of cutting sarcasm and he's proud of that fact. He has yet to master the compliment, the encouraging word, but that's fine. He's pretty sure they don't actually exist in the real world.

May comes. May means finals for Ryan, AP tests for Spencer. Everything is crazy, because even though most of Ryan's classes aren't much harder than they were in high school, he's anal about always getting the highest score in everything. High grades mean a higher GPA, which means he has a better chance of snagging a scholarship. A scholarship would mean being able to cut down on the number of hours he works, which supposedly would mean more time to spend on homework. If he gets a scholarship, Ryan plans to spend the extra time writing. Or maybe won't drop any hours and instead try to find a place of his own. Though moving out of his dad's place would also mean moving away from Spencer, and try as he might, Ryan's not quite ready for that yet. Spencer's an immature idiot sometimes, but he's also been the one steady, dependable constant in Ryan's life for too many years now for Ryan to hold Spencer's immaturity against him. And anyway, sometimes that immaturity is exactly what's needed to keep Ryan from living in his own head.

May ends. At the last minute the twins, Spencer's sisters, get invited to an end-of-school party at a friend's, leaving the Smiths with two extra tickets for Spencer's graduation. Ryan's finals ended two weeks before and the summer term has yet to start, so when Spencer's mother asks Ryan if he's interested in joining them, Ryan can't think of any reason not to. Besides, he owes it to Spencer to do this—Spencer sat through an hour of dullness for _him_ last year, it's only fair that he return the favor. He tells Spencer's mom yes, and Ryan carefully doesn't think about how his father couldn't even be bothered to get his act together to show up at his only child's high school graduation.

Since it's Spencer, whom he loves like a brother, Ryan dresses nice—slacks, vest, jacket, tie. Since it's Spencer, whom he loves like a brother, Ryan also splurges forty bucks on the most obnoxious, outrageously brightly colored shades of eyeshadow he can find at the Claire's next to the record store, then decorates his face with an explosion of color that looks something like what would have happened had Kandinsky ever attempted paisley print. When Ryan sits down beside Spencer's parents in the auditorium, Mrs. Smith raises an eyebrow, but Mr. Smith grins and calls him "sport," so Ryan figures he's safe on that front. The design is slightly more elaborate than what he's been experimenting with over the past year, but not horribly so, and unlike Spencer, Ryan no longer gives a damn about what any of the people at this godforsaken school think of him. In the pit, the band starts up, and Ryan settles back in his seat as the graduates start the slow walk from the back of the auditorium to the stage to the droning, repetitive measures of _Pomp and Circumstance_.

Though he doesn't intend to, Ryan's pretty sure he dozes off. Either way, the next thing he knows, Spencer's mom is clapping and crying while Spencer's dad diplomatically pokes Ryan in the shoulder, sticking the fingers of his other hand in his mouth for an impromptu wolf-whistle. Ryan kind of loves Spencer's parents. He grins like a fool and claps hard as he watches Spencer, pink with embarrassment, walk across the stage to accept his diploma and handshake.

Since he's awake now anyway, Ryan keeps his attention focused on the stage, waiting for the Ws. He and Spencer used to have a sort-of band with Brent Wilson, a kid they've kind of known for years, and Ryan figures that, since the band idea was ultimately killed when Ryan came up with his life plan at sixteen, he owes it to Brent to at least clap when the guy walks.

It's because he's paying attention, waiting for them to hurry through the Ss, Ts, Us, Vs, that Ryan actually sees when the kid stands up at, "Brendon Boyd Urie." At first he thinks he must have drifted off again, but no, even after Ryan's pinched himself several times the boy clumsily crossing the stage is still wearing the same stupid glasses and has the same stupid hair that Ryan's grown accustomed to seeing in the record store. And just like that, despite months of careful caution on the kid's part to keep his identity a mystery, Ryan learns the name of ass-guy.

The curious thing is that knowing the kid's— _Brendon's_ —name doesn't change anything. Names, after all, don't mean much in the scheme of things. It's the other stuff, the stuff Ryan learns later while wading through the crowd to Spencer, that changes things.

Three days later, Ryan is alphabetizing CDs when the door opens and Brendon comes in. Before Brendon can say anything, Ryan launches into the explanation he's had ready for weeks now, carefully prepared for Brendon's next visit to the store. "If they really cared about you, they'd at least listen and try to believe you before trying anything as drastic as having you locked up. I'm just saying."

Strangely, Brendon's response is not defensive, instead consisting of a bumbling, stuttered apology. Ryan's used to Spencer who knows what topics to avoid, what subjects are safe to mention, so the apology is unexpected. Brendon talks about how he's tried to explain to his parents—well, his mother—what's happening to him, but he can't even get her to hear him when he's talking about the simple, normal stuff like what he wants to do with his future. For the first time, Ryan feels a surge of empathy for this kid, for Brendon.

"A lot of kids feel that way about their parents when they're your age," Ryan says carefully, thinking of himself at sixteen, telling Spencer about his plan for life. His plan that relies almost entirely on himself, his father carefully cut out of it as much as possible.

He and Brendon talk about stupid things. Ryan feels vindicated when Brendon confirms for him that Desiree, one of the other clerks at the record store, is almost entirely responsible for the chaotic, mixed up order the albums always seem to be in when Ryan comes on shift. Honestly, it stands to reason—Desiree is the bane of Ryan's existence; he and Spencer have long suspected that Desiree is operating with only half a brain. Unfortunately, she's also the granddaughter of the owner, so there's not much of anything Ryan can do about the whole thing. Ryan has a sneaking suspicion she's also related to one of the stupider members of the group of underclassmen that liked to follow Spencer around. A cousin or something.

Brendon switches topics at random, and they somehow end up back on the subject of his parents again. Ryan can't understand why—Brendon seems like a bright enough kid, you'd think he'd be able to understand that when parents stop bothering to listen to you, it may be time to stop listening to them. "Why is it so important that they remember you?" Ryan demands, frustrated. If Ryan's dad forgot _him_ , he thinks, it would be a godsend. Get the old man off his back once and for all, if nothing else.

However, letting his family forget him doesn't appear to be something Brendon's even considered. "They're... they're my family," he says, wide-eyed with shock.

When Brendon talks about family, how important they are, Ryan can't help but recall the people he saw crowding around Brendon three days ago, after the graduation ceremony. Those men and women are Brendon's family, his parents, brothers, and sisters. People who care enough about Brendon to come to his graduation. People who care so little about Brendon that they can't be bothered to learn who he is. It's strangely alien to Ryan, who's accustomed to the careless neglect of his father and the unconditional love of Spencer's parents. Somehow, it's never occurred to Ryan that there might be a third option. The prospect makes him feel oddly uncomfortable.

"Family's always there for you, no matter what. That's what family's about," Brendon concludes, and Ryan bites his lip and grips the edge of the rack in front of him.

No one has ever been "always there" for Ryan, no one. Not even Spencer. Ryan glares down at the CDs before him, thinking of his family, of the man who, if he's lucky, won't be conscious when Ryan gets off shift this evening. "Not all family," he snaps, sharper than he means to be. He doesn't regret saying it, though. He doesn't apologize either, so he isn't surprised when Brendon leaves without another word.

After careful consideration, Ryan decided back in April to skip the summer session this year. Two and a half, three months of full time work definitely outweigh whatever advantages might be gained by taking eight units worth of intensive summer classes. Besides, it's Spencer's last free summer before college. That's important.

Also, Ryan's already discovered that working full time is a great deal less stressful than going to school. Sure, a lot of the customers are idiots and one of these days he's probably going to strangle Desiree, but there's no homework and no grades to worry over. For the first time in months, Ryan's free to relax and unwind. He keeps a notebook under the counter, and when business is slow and Spencer isn't there, Ryan sneaks it out and writes snippets, scenes, phrases. Bombastic bits of banality. It makes him feel studious and superior, scribbling out random pieces of eloquent existentialism in between eying the adolescent girls cooing over the most recent album of the current teen pop sensation.

"You know you just look pretentious when you do that, Mister You Can Tell I'm Deep Because of How Much Eyeliner I Wear," Spencer observes as he comes in, barely missing walking into the flock of girls as they bumble out of the store, giggling amongst themselves.

Ryan closes the notebook but otherwise ignores Spencer, acting for all the world like Spencer isn't worth his time. Which he isn't. Because Spencer is a complete douche sometimes. Most times, now that Ryan thinks about it. Really, Ryan needs to make more friends so he doesn't have to spend all his time with Spencer and Brent. Though lately Brent's always busy with his girlfriend, so mostly Spencer these days. Flipping the notebook open to a clean page, Ryan uncaps his pen and carefully writes, _To do: Find new, intelligent friends._ When Spencer finally reaches the counter, Ryan is completing the entry by drawing a flower in the margin.

"What sort of great literature is the illustrious Ryan Ross penning today?" Spencer asks, leaning forward to try and read the page.

"Actually," Ryan says, raising an eyebrow as he tucks the notebook away, "I was writing a reminder to myself to find some new friends. Ones with brains."

"Bullshit. You were drawing flowers again, weren't you? You're fooling no one with the emo act, Ross. We all know you're secretly a hippie stuck in the body of an anorexic teenage girl. I've seen your collection of Beatles memorabilia."

"Shut up, I'm not anorexic," Ryan grumbles, glaring and punching Spencer in the arm. Because he's a total douche, Spencer pretends he doesn't even feel it. "And you listen to the Beatles too," Ryan says accusingly.

"Man, you even punch like a girl. And it's okay if I listen to them, because we both know that I would totally rock the hippie look. Don't even try to pretend it isn't true," Spencer replies amicably. He then hits Ryan back, which isn't the least bit fair because Ryan doesn't have padding to protect himself the way Spencer does. Also, Spencer has the unfair advantage of having spent the past fourteen years making the twins' lives miserable. Which means that when he hits, Spencer purposefully jabs his knuckle into the tender spot between the bones in the shoulder joint.

"Yeah, I can see you in a granny dress, Smith. It would compliment your child-bearing hips," Ryan drawls. This time he steps back quickly, smartly avoiding Spencer's fist. Smirking, Ryan remembers why it is he tolerates Spencer's idiocy.

"Fuck you, your _mom_ wears granny dresses—she said last night that she likes the way they give easy-access," Spencer snaps.

As far as comebacks go, it's a pretty lame, and Ryan's in the middle of pointing this fact out when the bell above the entrance to the store tinkles. Someone says, "I moved out," and Ryan glances over at the door, then quickly looks away again when he sees it's Brendon. Over a month has passed since the last time Brendon came by the store, but it isn't as if Ryan's been worried about him or anything.

"Dude," Spencer laughs when he notices Ryan's distraction, "what's with you?"

Ryan shrugs and shoves his hands in his pockets. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see that Brendon's still standing in the doorway, shifting uncomfortably as if he's wondering if he should leave. After a handful of moments, Brendon wanders over to the blues section of the store and starts thumbing through the albums there.

Somehow, Ryan's not-watching approach fails to work, as Spencer notices and twists around, craning his neck to try and see what Ryan's looking at. "Hey, I know that guy," Spence says, sounding a little surprised. "He was in my year." The pronouncement causes Ryan to make an involuntary strangled noise, and he ducks his head down, staring at the top of the counter. This, of course, is the last thing he should have done, because the next thing Ryan knows, Spencer's head whips back around and he's widening his eyes and laughing. "Oh my _god_ , that's him, isn't it? That's ass-guy. Fuck, I can't believe I went to school with _ass-guy_. I always thought he was, like, _ten_."

"Brendon," Ryan mutters sulkily. "His name is Brendon."

"I know," Spencer says, smirking. "He's friends with Brent, did you know? They used to get paired up in econ all the time. Fucking alphabetical seating."

Ryan's head snaps up and he glares harder, trying to drill a hole into Spencer's head with his eyes. It would figure that Spencer knows Brendon. Spencer, who refused to help Ryan find out more about ass-guy, forcing Ryan to resort to underhanded and, alright, unintentional methods just to learn Brendon's name.

"So, what. You finally found the balls to ask him his name?" Spencer presses, still grinning.

"Uh, no, actually," Ryan admits a bit sheepishly. "I heard it at your graduation. He and I have a sort of no-name policy. It's complicated." Ryan shrugs, shoulders reaching his ears. He feels guilty and foolish. Guilty for finding out Brendon's name without permission. (He didn't _mean_ to—he was trying to, or at least thinking about trying, and it just fell into his lap, almost.) Foolish for feeling guilty over such an inconsequential thing. And for having to admit it to Spencer.

Spencer raises an eyebrow and gives Ryan a skeptical look. "A no-name policy. _Why?_ Does he seriously think you're a stalker or something?"

Now is not the time to tell Spencer about the stalker shrine next to his bed, Ryan decides. Not that it's _really_ a stalker shrine or anything—that's just how Ryan jokingly refers to it in his head. It's just a manifesto he's written that describes who Brendon is, as far as Ryan knows, with a photo Ryan cannibalized from an old yearbook. He keeps it next to his bed so he can see it each day when he wakes up, reminding himself. Ryan isn't stalking, he swears. He just thinks Brendon should have one sure thing, one person who will always remember him, always know who Brendon is, insofar as Ryan can know.

"Like I said," Ryan says firmly, "it's complicated." He may share everything with Spencer, but what's happening with Brendon isn't Ryan's to share.

"Fine, be that way," Spencer huffs. "I suppose you want me to leave so you can flirt awkwardly with him." He glances at Brendon once more, then shrugs. "See you later. Mom said it'd be spaghetti tonight."

"Okay," Ryan says, waving vaguely at Spencer as he leaves. He counts to ten, checks to make sure he can't see Spencer anymore no matter what angle he looks out the big windows that make up the front of the store, then walks over to where Brendon seems to be seriously interested in a B. B. King CD. Ryan knows it's a little creepy of him, just standing there, watching Brendon without saying anything, and he has a vague itch between his shoulders that he's intruding on something. The itch doesn't stop him from watching, though. Ryan can't help it if he finds Brendon's ability to immerse himself in music, any kind of music, absolutely fascinating.

After a couple minutes, Brendon must finally notice Ryan standing there, because he glances up, flushes slightly, and manages an awkward, "Um. Hi?"

Ryan has to hold his breath the keep his face blank and prevent himself from snorting with amusement. Tamping down the urge to laugh, he raises an eyebrow and says, "A proper greeting. How astonishing. What did your parents think of your moving out?" To be honest, Ryan doesn't believe Brendon's actually done it. Brendon may be an okay kid with a decent backbone, but from everything Ryan's seen, Brendon's a wet blanket and completely dependent when it comes to his family.

Brendon rubs the back of his head and stumbles over his words as he speaks, shifting between hesitating over them and rushing through them, as if the sting will hurt less if he gets them out fast enough. It takes some doing, but Ryan's eventually able to make sense of what Brendon says. Apparently, if his story can be believed, Ryan underestimated Brendon's mettle. Sure, he didn't face off with his parents, chose to tell them he was leaving through a letter instead of face-to-face, but it's a choice Ryan can more than understand. The very fact that Brendon was able to make that decision, take the steps to break off ties with his family, his parents and move out on his own—it's an act that shakes Ryan, puts him off-balance. Up until now, he's consistently thought less of Brendon, looked down on him while seeing him as someone undeserving of the magic he's stumbled upon. Now, for the first time, Brendon's surpassed Ryan, done something Ryan's never had the guts to do.

Not that Ryan tells Brendon that. He has an image to maintain, after all. Instead, he covers his surprise by wrinkling his nose and asking, "You're not going to cry on me, are you?"

For a moment Brendon's face stutters between upset and surprise, then settles into nothing as he takes a deep breath, holds it, then lets it out with a coughing laugh. "No, I'm good," he says reassuringly. Ryan's doubt must show, because Brendon hurries on to explain, "Really. It's just been a really intense month. Moving out, increasing my hours. Lots of horrible hours, worse pay, yuppie customers, no benefits, a crap apartment, and really missing my family, but. I'm okay. Trust me."

Ryan blinks at Brendon's final statement and starts humming without thinking. It drags a real, barking laugh out of Brendon, and before Ryan knows what he's doing, he's returning Brendon's smile and asking, "Hey, Are you busy right now? I get off in ten; we could get coffee or something. My treat."

As soon as the words are out of Ryan's mouth, Brendon's smile disappears like it was never there, and it's all Ryan can do to not slap himself in the face and retreat to the back of the store in embarrassment. Not that he would need to, since Brendon's shuffling away, glancing at the door out of the corner of his eye. "I. No. Sorry. I have to. I should go," Brendon stutters, face white with fear or some other emotion Ryan can't identify.

"Look," Ryan snaps, furious with himself for forgetting that Brendon isn't like Spencer, they aren't _friends_. "I'm not hitting on you, alright? I just think you have good taste in music and we could talk somewhere else for once so you don't have to feel guilty about coming in and never buying anything." Ryan is startled to find that the words are true as he speaks them, that he really doesn't have any ulterior motive here. He just wants to get to know Brendon better. But of course, it isn't as if Brendon wants to know _him_ any better. Pulling in on himself, Ryan cradles his elbows, eyes daring Brendon to challenge him when he says, "It's not a date or anything. I'm just saying we could go somewhere as friends."

"I'm know," Brendon says, and it may be wishful thinking on Ryan's part, but it seems almost as if he sounds a little regretful. If Brendon says anything more as he hurries out of the store, Ryan can't hear it over the way the blood is pounding in his ears.

After this, Ryan doesn't expect to see Brendon again. There's an unspoken arrangement between them, one that limits all contact to the confines of the music store, all information traded to give no additional information about personal, nitty-gritty things. Nothing that could allow for their conversations to be anything more than exchanges between casual acquaintances. In extending the hand of friendship, Ryan broke the rules of the arrangement, and Brendon has no good reason to come back.

A month or more passes, and Ryan's just about ready to give up on ever seeing Brendon again when he turns up once more. This time, Ryan bends over backwards to prevent any awkwardness between them. It's strange, to say the least. Ryan isn't used to friendships like this, to catering to the wants and needs of the other person. Most of the time, he says and does what he wants with little respect for the other person's feelings, and most of the time, others do the same. Spencer's the only one who ever goes out of his way to be careful of Ryan's feelings, and most of the time even Spencer doesn't bother, figuring that if he doesn't call Ryan on his bullshit, who will?

Though it takes him some time to admit and acknowledge it, talking with Brendon, being careful of Brendon leads Ryan to think that, perhaps, he hasn't always approached or appreciated his relationship with his father as much as he could. Ryan's dad may not be the most understanding or affectionate parent, but he's never made any bones about what he does or doesn't expect from Ryan. He's ignored Ryan's wants and wishes, but he's never wrapped up his expectations in a pretty package and then resorted to emotional blackmail to get his way. When he thinks about it, Ryan realizes that, if anything, his relationship with his dad is a much better, much healthier one than what Brendon had with his family.

It's something of a heart-stopping epiphany, and one Ryan tries to avoid thinking about, because if Ryan's life is better than other people's, if it's better than Brendon's, then what does that say about Brendon's life? What does it say about Ryan, who's been spending more than a year now envying the magic that Brendon has accidentally stumbled upon? Better not to think about it, not to concentrate on it.

At least, that's what he plans to do. Things don't always work out as planned, however, particularly now that Ryan has to admit that, quite possibly, the differences between himself and his father aren't nearly as drastic as he's always told himself they are. They have different values, different goals, but they're both stubborn as sin. And, if Ryan's honest with himself, while things have never been wonderful between them, while he's always been left with the impression that his father would have preferred to have a son more like himself, one who values physical feats over mental ones, things never got truly bad between them until Ryan began actively rebelling and rejecting.

Ryan's father has never, not even once, given Ryan any reason to think that his love is conditional. Following on the heels of this thought is the realization that Ryan can't remember when he last told his dad he loves him. He thinks it might have been in third or fourth grade. The last time his teacher had the class make cards for Father's Day, probably. This realization sits uncomfortably with Ryan. George Ross may not be the best father, may be a disappointment in many ways, but he has tried, in his own way, over the years. And it isn't as if Ryan's been the best son recently.

Hesitation tends to be the rule of thumb for Ryan. That and caution. It takes him several weeks, more than a month to work out the words and work up the courage to broach the subject. An additional two days in order to catch his dad when he's completely sober. When he does, though, there's no hesitancy in Ryan's voice, no caution in his manner. He projects strength and confidence when he speaks, despite the fact that his heart is pounding like crazy, threatening to break free of his chest.

"You have to realize I am not you," Ryan says, staring straight at his father on the other side of the dinner table. "I am not you and I never will be. I am a different person, an individual with different views, aspirations, hopes, and dreams. The fact that my hopes and dreams are not the same as yours does not mean I respect yours any less. It just means that they aren't important to me in the same way that they're important to you." When he finishes, Ryan's able to keep from protectively hugging his arms around himself, but only just.

Several minutes pass before his dad says anything. Minutes spent chewing, swallowing, thinking. Worrying. Finally, his father sets down his knife and fork and says, "A valid point. What brought this on?"

Ryan bites his lip and glances away. "I've been thinking about things lately. It's... A friend of mine had to move out on his own because his views clashed so much with those of his parents. They couldn't and wouldn't accept that he's not them, that he's his own person, and I just. I realized that I'm pretty lucky to have you as a dad."

The look his dad gives him is a disbelieving one and Ryan has to fight against the urge to blush with embarrassment. "You think you're lucky to have me. Damn, boy, I wouldn't wish me on anyone. I know I'm crap at the parenting thing, there's no reason to pretend I'm not."

"No, I'm not trying to," Ryan says with a barking laugh, meeting his dad's gaze and giving him a crooked grin. "Just. You could have done a lot worse, all things considered. We pretty much have completely different, clashing personalities, and we don't always understand each other, but you've never made me feel like you don't love me. You don't play games and put conditions on your love for me."

"Parental love isn't conditional," his dad says with a frown. "You're my kid—I kind of have to love you, even when I can't for the life of me fathom what the hell you're talking about or why you do the things you do."

"Not all parents think that," Ryan says quietly, thinking of Brendon talking about his family, the parents who never even tried to make peace with him, to meet him halfway. "I'm glad I have you. Sorry if I haven't always said it."

"It's okay," his dad says, leaning across the table to squeeze his shoulder. "I'd like to think I've always known."

"Yeah?"

"Well... not really. You're a tough nut to crack," his dad says with a sad smile and a shrug. "But never think that I don't appreciate you or that I'm not glad to have you. You've done pretty well with yourself, boy. I'm proud of you."

"...really?" Ryan smiles hesitantly, shakily.

His dad gives him a sharp nod and squeezes Ryan's shoulder again before dropping his hand. "Truce?" he asks.

There's no hesitation when Ryan firmly clasps his father's hand in his own and shakes it. "Truce," he agrees. Ryan feels better than he has in a long time.

Much as he feels like announcing to any and all his newfound peace with his dad, Ryan knows it's not the sort of thing to share with Brendon. Instead, Ryan talks about everything and anything and nothing. About music, books, Ryan's classes, Brendon's coworkers, both of their customers. It's startling to learn just how many different things two people can discuss without even once mentioning a single person's proper name. Ever-resourceful, Ryan writes a paper on the topic for a course he's taking on narratives and the figure of the untrustworthy narrator.

Every now and then Ryan makes a vague attempt to bridge the gap between them, tentatively trying to get Brendon to agree to meet outside the store. After the first time, these invitations are less awkward, more neutral, less suggestive. Each offer is received and rejected the same way, however, with Brendon folding in on himself, closing up and closing off, leaving immediately. Some days Ryan feels like screaming with frustration, feels like grabbing Brendon, shaking him, and telling him that he _knows_. He knows Brendon's name, practically knows _Brendon_ after all this time, and it doesn't matter, nothing's changed. Ryan's never once forgotten him.

In the end, he never acts on these urges. He keeps is mouth shut and says nothing. Though he learned Brendon's name unintentionally, it stills feels like a violation of trust, and Brendon, Ryan has learned, trusts much too easily. Ryan does not want to add himself to the long, long list of people who have let Brendon down on that count. Pushing aside his frustration, Ryan turns their conversations to more mundane, every day topics.

The paper for his narrative course comes back with a mark of ninety out of a hundred and a note to please see the professor after class. Ryan waits until the other students have all filed out of the room before he makes his way to the front where the prof is packing up her things. "You wanted to see me, ma'am?" Ryan asks cautiously. In general he holds little respect for his professors at the community college, but he really likes this class, and he respects the opinions of the woman who teaches it.

"Ah, yes, Ross," she says, smiling at him. "I was very impressed by your latest paper. It's a bit unpolished and could do with some cleaning up—your prose gets rather purple at times, and you have an unfortunate fascination with overly-complicated metaphors—but if you were to clean it up some and expand further on certain points, you will have a very strong paper. The Creative Writing department at UNLV has a scholarship for transfer students that I feel you have a good shot at with that paper. You were planning to transfer there next year, yes?"

"I. Yes," Ryan says, voice cracking in an embarrassing manner. He hadn't think the paper was that well done. Despite what the professor says about purple prose and convoluted metaphors, he thought he'd written this particular paper in a rather straight-forward, factual manner, and he's startled that she's so taken with it.

"Would you like to see about applying for the scholarship? If so, you need to have paperwork in by the twenty-first, which I realize doesn't give you much time, but I'm more than willing to help you with tightening the flow of your essay," the professor says, pulling a sheet of paper from her bag and handing it to Ryan. It's the application for the scholarship, Ryan sees when he takes it from her.

"Yeah, yes. I'd really like that. Thank you," he says. He's still stunned an hour later when he's wandering out of the classroom, application and essay under arm. Perhaps, he thinks, it might be time to tell Brendon of the fact that he wrote a paper about him, about them.

Brendon, however, has his own news when Ryan sees him next. "I'm going to school," Brendon blurts out in the middle of the complicated story of Spencer versus his statistics prof that Ryan's telling as a way to lead into the topic of the paper. "Again. I mean, I'm going to take classes this summer. And in the fall. I got scholarships."

Ryan's heart seizes up in his chest, and it's a struggle to keep his voice calm when he asks, "You're moving, then?"

"What? No. I'm doing community college, like you suggested. I don't make enough to go to something fancier yet," Brendon says. A small smile tugs at the corner of his mouth as he talks about finances, explains his plan to eventually transfer to a four-year university and try for his Bachelor's once he has enough saved up.

Since it seems to be the time to say it, Ryan takes a breath and says, "I'm transferring. At the end of this semester."

"Oh. Hey, good for you," Brendon says. "It's weird," he adds. "Three, four years ago I wouldn't have even thought about going anywhere other than BYU after high school. Now I'm really excited about going to community college."

"You've changed a lot," Ryan says. It's true. Brendon is no longer the confused kid that first spilled his guts to Ryan almost two years ago. He's changed a lot. In the process, he's changed Ryan too.

"I really have," Brendon agrees, sounding slightly surprised. "I think... I think that might be why all this happened. The forgetting thing, I mean. My family, my friends... they had this image of me in their heads, an image that wasn't me anymore. And, I didn't fit in their lives anymore, so they took me out. But when they forgot me, it wasn't really like I was losing them, it was more like I was letting go of something I'd outgrown." He laughs and shrugs. "I'm kind of glad it happened, though. I don't think I would have had the guts to try and make it on my own otherwise."

Ryan gives him a skeptical look. "You think the universe restructured itself so that you could figure out you didn't get along with your parents," he says.

Brendon laughs again. "I figure it makes as much sense as the rest of this?" He pauses, hesitates, and bites his lip. Ryan raises an eyebrow and is about to ask what the problem is when Brendon asks, in a rush, "Hey, you get off soon, don't you? Are you busy afterwards? I was thinking we could get coffee or something. Celebrate both of us getting into school." He flushes slightly. "So. Want to?"

It's so unexpected that Ryan's at a loss for words at first. "I. I, um," he stutters, fumbling for something to say. The feeling's so odd, so alien to him that Ryan can't help but laugh at his own awkwardness, rolling his eyes and grinning at Brendon. "Yeah," he says. "Yeah, I'd like that."

"Sweet. I'm Brendon, by the way." Brendon holds out his hand, and Ryan takes it, biting his lip to keep from blurting out, _I know_.

"Ryan," he says instead, still smiling. "It's nice to meet you."


End file.
